Teller of Untruths, Thy Trousers Have Combusted
by DinerGuy
Summary: Shawn Spencer is missing. Is he just chasing a lead? Or is something more deadly afoot in Santa Barbara?
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is set at some point before Shawn and Juliet are dating. (Honestly, I've had the outline on my computer for years... I'm just now actually writing it.)_

 _Thanks to frankiemcstein for all of the help brainstorming this one. And massive thanks to redwolffclaw for her fantastic beta work on it! This fic would not be half of what it is without these ladies' hard work. Thanks for jumping on this crazy train along with me; I am eternally grateful!_

 _Standard disclaimer applies._

* * *

 _"Juliet!"_ Gus's voice came through the phone as soon as she had answered it.

"Hey, Gus," Juliet greeted, pulling her keys from the ignition and heading for the doors of the station. "I just got back to the office from lunch. What's up?"

He didn't waste any time with pleasantries. _"Have you talked to Shawn lately?"_

"No," she frowned in concern. "Gus, what's going on?"

 _"I can't get ahold of him,"_ Gus said. His tone of voice gave away just how worried he was, even though he was trying to mask it. _"I haven't talked to him since yesterday, and he wasn't at Psych this morning when I got there."_

"Okay…" Juliet paused halfway up the steps. "Um, maybe he slept in? He _has_ been known to do that before," she added with a chuckle.

 _"Well, I thought so, but then I went to his apartment to check, and he wasn't there_ _either_ _. His bike was gone_ _,_ _and everything was locked up."_ Gus sighed heavily.

Juliet put her free hand to her forehead and closed her eyes in thought. "I don't know, Gus… he hasn't called or texted me. Do you think he went chase a lead and just didn't tell you?"

 _"Could be,"_ Gus said slowly. _"But we don't have any ongoing cases right now. We finished up that one with you guys yesterday, and there haven't been any new clients lately._ _Oh, a_ _nd I checked his dad's house too, but Henry said he hasn't seen Shawn since the other day, so…"_ he trailed off.

Squaring her shoulders, Juliet pushed down the little tendril of worry that was starting to snake its way up around her heart. "I can't officially do anything for forty-eight hours, Gus, but I'll tell you what, I'll try to get in touch with him, and if I can't, I'll track his phone and see what I can find. Maybe he just got sidetracked on some wild goose chase; you know how he gets."

 _"Thanks, Juliet,"_ Gus said, the relief evident in his voice. _"You're probably right."_

Juliet smiled. "I'll talk to you soon, Gus." She ended the call and turned to mount the remaining steps, pulling up her text messages as she did so.

 _Shawn, call me. Gus is wo_ _rried._

She pressed the screen to send the text, then tucked her phone in her pocket and headed to her desk. The case from the day before might have been finished, but there was plenty of paperwork to do to close it officially. The conversation with Gus shifted to the back of her mind as she pulled out her chair and wiggled her mouse to wake her computer back up.

A few moments later, she reached for a stack of files on her desk, then frowned and flipped through them all. "Hey, Carlton," she said, looking sideways at where her partner was reading off of a legal pad, "where's the Rogers casefile?" She looked back over the contents of her desk. "I don't see it here…"

"Oh, uh, here," Carlton replied, looking up and reaching his long arm out to hand her the file in question. "Sorry, I, uh, think Spencer left it here last night."

"Of course he did," Juliet said with a grin. "He never can put anything back where it goes." She frowned as she realized her phone hadn't buzzed at all in the past ten minutes. Shawn normally replied to her messages almost right away. "Hey, speaking of Shawn, you haven't talked to him at all today, have you?"

"Spencer?" Carlton snorted. "No, why would I? I usually can't get him to leave me alone; no way am I calling him on purpose unless I have to."

She sighed and pulled up her texts just in case she'd somehow missed it. No alerts signaled any unread messages, and she frowned at her phone.

"Something wrong, O'Hara?" Carlton had noticed her expression and was watching her curiously.

"I… uh, I don't know. It's probably nothing," she waved off his question. "What do you say we get these reports finished so we can actually go home on time tonight?"

"Okay then." Not sounding completely convinced, Carlton nodded slowly and turned back to his notes.

Over the next few hours, Juliet sent five more text messages, called twice, and checked her phone at least twenty times, but there was no response from Shawn. Things were moving past simply wondering what Shawn was chasing to real worry. If he was at his apartment, there was a chance he was either sleeping off an all-nighter or watching some sort of marathon. However, with no current cases, she had no idea what he could be doing that he wouldn't respond to even one of her texts.

Just as she was about to give in and trace his phone, Buzz McNab's hesitant voice broke into her thoughts. "Hey, uh, guys?"

Something was wrong. Juliet wasn't sure if it was in his posture, his stride, or both, but she had an immediate feeling that something was very, very wrong. He fiddled with a piece of paper in his hand, obviously uncomfortable with but motivated by whatever news he had−and Juliet had a sinking feeling that it was not good news. "What is it, Buzz?" she asked, standing.

Her partner looked up as well. He didn't say anything right away, but when Juliet glanced over at him, she could see his gaze studying the officer as if he could deduce what was on Buzz's mind. "Well, spit it out, McNab," Carlton growled.

"Right," Buzz nodded, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. "I, uh, we got a call at the front desk a few minutes ago. There was a body found washed up by Stearn's Wharf."

Relief washed over Juliet. "So a new case then? I'm surprised the chief didn't tell us herself." She reached for her desk drawer. "Do we have an identi…" The look on Buzz's face brought all of her worry right back. "Buzz?"

"Um, there's no positive ID yet, but the victim is a male… early thirties…"

"Buzz…" Juliet's stomach dropped to her feet. The everyday sounds of the station seemed to fade away as she focused on the officer's face.

"But there was a note… Left on a motorcycle that has apparently been parked there since late last night…"

Carlton's words were short and terse. "What kind of motorcycle, McNab?"

"A Norton, sir," Buzz replied quietly.

An involuntary gasp escaped Juliet's lips. Before she could voice her question, though, Buzz answered it. "I ran the plates already. It's Shawn's," he told them. His expression gave away just how he felt about the news he'd had to deliver.

"Let's go." Carlton was on his feet. He paused to put a hand on Juliet's shoulder for a moment before striding purposefully for the door. He didn't say anything else, but she could see the determined set of his shoulders that there was much more feeling behind those words than he actually let on.

* * *

"It's his handwriting all right," Lassiter declared grimly, glaring at the paper in his hands. "I'd recognize that chicken scratch anywhere."

O'Hara had her jaw set and arms folded; she was strong, but he could tell this was taking a toll on her. "I… it is his. But it can't be…"

His stomach tightened as he watched her. Lassiter hated having to put his partner through this, but there really was no other way. He also knew it was pointless to try to discourage her from being here; as much as he wanted to send her home, she would never agree. So he just folded the slightly wrinkled piece of notebook paper and held it out to her wordlessly. She accepted the sheet and stared at it distantly.

"Guys!" Guster jogged over to join them. "What's going on? What happened to Shawn?" He was out of breath and wheezing as he pulled up. Putting his hands on his knees, he gulped in deep breaths of air, then straightened. "It's bad, isn't it?"

"Gus…" O'Hara held out the paper to him. "I… Shawn left this note." She put a hand on his shoulder as he took it. Her voice sounded as if it would break as she offered quietly, "He says he's sorry, that he had to do this…"

"Do what?" Guster's voice trembled as he looked between them both.

"They found a body on the beach an hour ago," Lassiter said flatly. "No positive ID can be made until we get him back to the lab, but he's wearing the same clothes Spencer was the last time anyone saw him."

Guster shook his head, even as his lower lip quivered. "You're wrong. Shawn would never…" He trailed off and clenched his jaw, staring off into the distance as if willing himself to stay strong. Lassiter couldn't help being impressed; Guster might brag about his supposed iron stomach, but the detective had seen him lose his composure on more than one occasion. This turn of events was hitting much closer to home for the man than any previous case, but he was holding it together remarkably well.

"I'm sorry, Gus," O'Hara whispered. She and Guster looked at each other for a few beats before O'Hara grabbed the man in a hug. "I'm so sorry."

Lassiter swallowed as he watched them. That feeling was back in his gut; it felt like guilt, and he didn't like it. Turning on his heel, he stalked for the beach to supervise the activity there so that O'Hara wouldn't have to. He'd have to talk to his partner and Guster eventually, but for now, he kept his thoughts to himself and left them to their tears. He wasn't sure he could ever forgive himself for this, or if they would forgive him. He hoped they would, but he wouldn't blame them if they didn't.

He wrestled with the feeling for the rest of the afternoon as he supervised the team combing the beach and processing the body. It was a somber affair, as most of the officers knew Spencer in varying degrees of familiarity. Even if he annoyed them every time he showed up and started traipsing around a crime scene, the fact of the matter was that he was still one of their own. Even as just a consultant, he'd become a part of the station, and there were several detectives still on duty who had worked with Henry Spencer and knew his kid from the old days. Knowing that this was most likely the last time any of them would see him cast a gloom over their normal jobs.

When he finally made it back to the station, sand crunching inside of his dress shoes, the chief was waiting for him.

"Detective," Vick began as he shut the door to her office. "Where are we on this case?"

"We just started investigating, Chief," Lassiter told her. "Body was found a few hours ago by someone walking their dog on the beach. The responding officers found a Norton parked on the Wharf with a note taped to it; between the plates and the note, we're going off of the assumption that the body is Spencer's." He sighed as he finished. "Strode should be able to give us a better idea."

Vick nodded slowly as she considered his report. "Okay, thank you, Detective. Let's get confirmation from Woody and then examine every inch of evidence we can. I'm sending a team out to process his apartment, too, with the orders to treat this as a murder investigation." She glanced at her phone, sitting on the desktop, and sighed. "I haven't been able to get in touch with Henry Spencer… I'm going to keep trying." Then she looked back to Lassiter and nodded. "You're dismissed. Keep me apprised of any updates."

"Yes, ma'am!" Lassiter replied, standing.

"And Lassiter?"

He turned halfway to the door. "Yes, Chief?"

"Keep an eye on O'Hara, will you?"

"Of course." He nodded to Vick before heading through the office door and back toward the bullpen. He was only halfway there when his phone buzzed. Glancing down at the screen, he saw it was a text from his partner.

 _Woody says he has something. Meet you there._

Lassiter quickened his pace. This was not a meeting he wanted to have. He dreaded what the coroner was about to tell them; the man was much less than tactful at the best of times, but it had to be done, and Lassiter was determined O'Hara would not have to talk to Strode by herself. He caught up with his partner halfway down the stairs, and they entered the morgue together.

"Strode, what do you have for us?" Lassiter asked, pushing through the doors with O'Hara right behind him. "Please tell me you have a positive identification on that body from the beach."

The coroner looked somberly at the detectives. "Well, you know, these things can take time…"

Clearing his throat, Lassiter looked at him sternly. "Strode!"

"Okay, but yes, I managed to get that ID you wanted." The other man nodded, although he still appeared slightly unsure of himself. He could barely look at O'Hara as he continued in a low voice, "It is as you said. It's Shawn."

O'Hara made a small choking sound. "Are you sure?" she asked tremulously.

"Yes." Strode crossed the small space between him and the junior detective and put a hand on her arm. "I am so sorry, Juliet. Truly I am. He's… Shawn… that is… um, a good man," he finished his halting sentence.

"Thank you, Woody," O'Hara said softly. "But," she started before her voice grew hard with resolve, "it's not over yet. He couldn't have done this to himself. He wouldn't. I'm going to find out who did this, and they're going to pay." She gave the coroner one last grateful look, then paused to smile sadly at her partner before heading back through the doors.

As soon as the door closed behind O'Hara, Lassiter turned back to Strode. "You were worried about lying to her, but you actually surprised me."

"Ah, yes, well, that would be because I _didn't_ lie to her. Not exactly." Strode grinned in his creepy way that Lassiter assumed was meant to be reassuring. "These things _can_ take time, and what I said is 'just as _you_ said.' I have no idea if that man lying under my sheet is who you say he is. I mean, based off of everything you told me, it's probably that one guy, but I couldn't tell you with any degree of certainty. Not yet, anyway. Like I said, these things take time."

Lassiter frowned, both at the coroner and his deluded thought process, and at the bad taste that lying to his partner was leaving in his mouth. "Well hurry it up if you can. I need to know for sure who that is."

* * *

"Lassiter!" O'Hara's voice broke into his thoughts and pulled his attention back to the task at hand. She was watching him curiously as he'd paused while thinking of what to put in his report. "Are you listening?" Even with the pain creasing her forehead, she was worried about him. "Are you okay?"

Again, Lassiter felt that twinge of guilt on his conscience. He had wanted to tell her from the beginning, but Spencer had pressed him not to. The other man just wanted to protect O'Hara, but Lassiter was starting to doubt the wisdom of agreeing to this plan. Of course, he wasn't about to tell her when there were other people milling about and he couldn't control the information… but surely Spencer couldn't expect him to hide this from his partner for such an undetermined amount of time. "O'Hara…" he began.

"You didn't hear what I said a moment ago, did you?" She raised an eyebrow at him. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and Lassiter had taken note of the empty tissue box in her garbage can along with the half-used one now sitting on her desk. However, to her credit, there was only a slight tremor in her voice. She might be feeling Spencer's loss, but she was a good cop and she was strong.

He knew she'd make it through this.

Thinking all of that in a split second, Lassiter offered a half-smile in response to his partner's question. "Sorry, I got distracted," he apologized sheepishly.

"Understandable." The look O'Hara gave him only served to increase the knot in his stomach. She gestured toward her computer. "Okay, so, we got the camera footage from nearby the Wharf, right?"

"Yes… we're both combing through it." Lassiter wasn't exactly sure where she was going with this, but he hoped it wasn't in the direction he suspected she might be. He had wanted to be the one to find the footage for which they were working. He needed to be the one to see it first.

O'Hara's next words confirmed that he hadn't been successful. "Well, look what I found!" She pointed at her screen.

Pushing his chair away from his desk, Lassiter came over to peer at her screen over her shoulder. The video feed was dark and grainy, but it was still easy enough to make out a shadowy figure of a man hurrying as quickly as he could under the load of… something. The angle was bad, and it was hard to see exactly what the man was carrying, but then he crossed under a streetlight. O'Hara gasped at the image of the body being lugged down the Wharf.

"Is that…" She didn't have to finish her question.

Lassiter put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, O'Hara."

She just shook her head and watched as the two unknown figures moved off screen. Then she reached out and rewound the footage, leaning forward to study it more intently. "Do you know what this means?" she exclaimed. "There's no way that Shawn… that he− someone else did this to him!"

"O'Hara−"

"Only we can't get an ID off of this footage. It's way too dark. We have to go check out his apartment!" she continued, her words tumbling over each other in her eagerness. "Come on!"

Lassiter followed right behind her, determined to stay close to his partner for this investigation. It was taking a toll on her, he knew, even if she was pushing everything to the back burner in an effort to manage the case. He already knew what they were going to find when they arrived at the apartment, and he could only hope that Spencer had had the good sense not to leave anything incriminating behind.

He also knew he still couldn't tell her the truth. There would be too many officers at the apartment that one of them would catch on if O'Hara was suddenly acting a lot less distraught. Especially since there was a chance some of the team would have seen her at the Wharf earlier that day. Lassiter frowned; this mess was getting more and more tangled as the day went on. He honestly didn't know where it would end at this point, but he was determined to see it through regardless.

* * *

The dry-cleaner's-turned-apartment where Shawn lived was buzzing with activity when they arrived. Several cruisers and a CSI van were parked outside, and Juliet parked just behind them in the driveway. She wasted no time in jumping out of the car and rushing inside, not even waiting to see if her partner was following her. Right now, the one thing foremost in her mind was to get in there and find out what had happened to Shawn.

She still couldn't believe he was actually gone.

The detective hadn't allowed herself to even think about it, knowing that once she did, she would most likely lose herself in the emotions and memories. Instead, she pushed it all down in favor of doing her job. There would be time enough to mourn later. Right now, she needed to find the persons responsible and bring them in. After that, she'd worry about the rest.

Even still, she had found the tears threatening to spill out more than once since they had found Shawn's body at the Wharf. She'd made several escapes to the bathroom over the course of the afternoon, where she had given into a few silent moments of grief. She then straightened her shoulders, washed her face, and headed back out to work. Until Shawn had justice, she wouldn't even think about anything else.

Her partner had seemed on edge ever since that morning, and Juliet wondered just how Carlton was taking Shawn's loss. The two of them fought constantly, it seemed, but she could see beyond the surface enough to know that Carlton did appreciate Shawn more than he'd ever tell anyone, even himself. There was a part of him that missed the psychic's shenanigans already, and Juliet knew that the station would be so much different now that Shawn would no longer be able to pop in and bother everyone with his antics.

This all passed through her mind in a brief moment as she strode up the sidewalk and into the old dry cleaner's. When she entered the building, she put all of her musings aside, knowing she needed to focus and be at the top of her game. Not just because she had a job to do, although that was certainly part of it, but because she owed it to Shawn to do this right.

She turned in a circle, taking in the room around her. There was a stack of dishes in the sink and the garbage was about half-full of takeout containers.

The rest of the room was a mess, however. There were definite signs of a struggle of some kind; the coffee table was overturned, with a pizza box lying empty on the floor. What had been its contents were mixed up with a dozen or so DVD cases scattered across the floor. A lamp was overturned, adding broken glass to the mess on the floor, and a pair of throw pillows and a gray blanket were in random corners of the room.

"What happened here?" Carlton's question made her jump. She hadn't noticed him come in and stand beside her until he'd spoken.

Juliet didn't reply right away. It wasn't so much that she was busy surveying the room, although she was, but she didn't quite trust herself to open her mouth for fear that her carefully-suppressed tears would take advantage of the opportunity to come spilling out. She pointedly looked across the room, blinking against the sudden emotions that rushed through her as she realized how Shawn would never return to watch any more movies on that couch or eat any more pizzas at that table…

Wait, what was that under the sofa?

She blinked and started forward, squinting in concentration. When she got close enough to realize it was a phone, she almost left it where it was. However, on second glance she realized it wasn't Shawn's. There was no lime green case around it, and it was no smartphone either. No, this was one of those old-fashioned flip phones, and it looked like a cheap one too, from what she could tell.

"What did you find?" Carlton asked, watching as she grabbed a plastic baggie from one of the nearby crime scene technicians and picked up the device.

"This isn't Shawn's," Juliet declared as she straightened and showed him the phone. "It has to belong to one of those guys on the security feed."

Something crossed Carlton's gaze at that, something unreadable. It was curiously different than simple anger or grief, and Juliet frowned. She'd have to ask him about his thoughts later. For now, she turned her attention to the device. It was on, a simple push of a button told her, and she pressed more buttons through the plastic bag as she studied the display. "There's only… one number on this phone," she commented.

Carlton looked over her shoulder as she explored the device's menu further. "Several incoming and outgoing calls, but they're all to or from one single number," he agreed.

"Let's track it!" Juliet said eagerly. "We might just have found our smoking gun."

* * *

This was it. This was the smoking gun they needed. The one he'd been looking for all this time. Lassiter grinned in grim satisfaction and turned to his partner, waving the small stack of papers in his hand. "Remember the Sawyer case?" he asked. "Where we arrested the landscaper for murdering one of his rich customers?"

"Yes…" O'Hara replied slowly. "Shawn cracked that one for us after he found that the landscaper was angry that the victim had been short-changing him. They got into an altercation that ended in the man's death." When Lassiter nodded, she frowned. "Okay, but what does that have to do with Shawn's murder?"

Lassiter smiled grimly. "I just got the report back on that prepaid phone. It might have been an anonymous number, but the genius who bought it used a credit card."

At that, O'Hara's eyes lit up with hope. "That means we can track down who bought it! Meaning we can track down who hired this guy!"

"Already have that," Lassiter replied. "And that's where Sawyer comes in. Apparently, the phone was purchased by none other than Antonio Sawyer. As in, the uncle to Karl Sawyer, our murderous landscaper." He watched as the news registered with his partner.

"That can't be a coincidence!" she exclaimed. "Shawn's testimony is a huge part of that case. It's going to trial in a week!"

"Uncle Antonio must have decided to take matters into his own hands," Lassiter said with a nod. "No Spencer means an almost guaranteed release for his nephew. What do you say we go talk to him?"

O'Hara jumped up and grabbed her blazer that was hanging on the back of her chair. "Come on, partner. Let's go get him."

They were through the door and tearing out of the parking lot in less than two minutes, Lassiter at the wheel. Both detectives were silent, keeping their thoughts to themselves, and that was how Lassiter preferred it. Less talking, less chance to slip up and say something that would sink the whole plan. At this point, he decided, he would still refrain from telling O'Hara. He didn't want to chance anything shaking her determination to catch up with their perp. If she knew, he had no idea how she would respond, and time _was_ of the essence at the moment. He could catch her up later.

The address they had on file for Sawyer was a small white house in a beachside neighborhood. At past seven in the evening, most people were already home from their respective jobs, and Sawyer was no different. There was a shiny red sports car parked under the carport, and the lights were on inside. Lassiter had turned off his siren when they had gotten near the house, not wanting to alert Sawyer to their presence until it was too late to run.

Sure enough, when the man answered Lassiter's knock on the front door, his eyes grew wide and he tried to slam it shut in their faces. The head detective stopped it with a quickly outstretched hand and pushed it open, at which point Sawyer turned and tried to rush for his back door.

O'Hara responded even more quickly than her partner. "Don't move or I'll shoot!" she exclaimed, pulling her sidearm and raising it in one motion. "Put your hands up and turn around."

That was enough to convince Sawyer, and he froze with his hands in the air. But as he turned, a smirk played at the corners of his mouth. "You must be here about Shawn Spencer. You're too late, you know," he taunted.

O'Hara didn't reply, but Lassiter glanced at her to see the muscles in her cheek twitch as she set her jaw and tightened her grip on her gun ever so slightly.

"It really doesn't matter if you arrest me or not right now. That psychic is dead either way."

"Right," O'Hara bit out. "Because you had him killed yesterday."

At that, Sawyer shook his head slightly. "Well," he shrugged, "that one didn't go quite as planned, but I already found out about the old man's house. Someone else is already on the way." He chuckled. "He'll get what's his soon enough."

Lassiter's eyes narrowed at the man's words. "You'd better hope Spencer can hold his own again," he growled. As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could rephrase them, but there was no taking them back. He glanced over at his partner, whose eyes were slowly widening as she processed what he'd said.

"Lassiter," O'Hara's eyes were flashing as she turned to him, " _what_ is going on?"


	2. Chapter 2

_22 hours earlier… give or take_

Lassiter was fuming, partly at Spencer and partly at himself for not noticing the issue earlier and heading it off. What in the world made the psychic think he could just waltz off with police property?

Now, instead of finishing up his own work and going home for some much-needed rest, Lassiter was having to track down Spencer to retrieve the missing casefile. Lassiter snatched his cell phone from his pocket and dialed the number from memory. As soon as the phone call connected, Lassiter launched into his lecture. "Spencer, the SBPD is not running a public library, so I don't know where you got the idea that you can help yourself to confidential police files. You had better bring the Rogers case file back right now before I arrest you for theft of police property."

 _"But I thought the case was closed, Carlton."_

Lassiter frowned. Spencer rarely called him by his first name, and he was clearly enunciating every word of the conversation. Lassiter couldn't put his finger on it, but something was wrong.

 _"It can wait until tomorrow morning for you to cross all your 't's and dot all your 'i's. You really need to lighten up."_ Spencer chuckled. _"Tell Timmy to make sure you check out the pineapple fan though. I think there might be something dangerous going on there. Kind of time-sensitive, too, so you'd probably better look at that tonight."_

Okay, that had to be some kind of message. Lassiter had no idea who this Timmy was though… He frowned as the thought finally hit him. Of course, it was stupid, but Spencer _did_ usually call him Lassie, as much as Lassiter was not a fan of that nickname, and Spencer was overly fond of pineapples.

It was just crazy enough that it had to be Spencer trying to give him some kind of message.

"Spencer," he growled, half concerned and half annoyed at the other man messing with him, "what are you talking about?"

 _"I promise, Detective,"_ Spencer said. _"Would I ever lie to you?"_

Lassiter snorted. "All the time, but fine. I'll check into it and get back to you."

 _"You're the best, Carlton! See you!"_

There was a _click_ as the psychic hung up.

Grumbling to himself and vowing that Spencer would regret it if this was just some elaborate prank, Lassiter grabbed his keys and strode out to the parking lot. He was almost tempted to call for backup, just in case there was indeed something "dangerous" going on. However, knowing Spencer, that was simply an exaggeration and Lassiter was not about to waste departmental resources on some weird words from their pet psychic.

As head detective, he'd had years of training, and if for some reason the situation was more than he could handle, he could always call for assistance.

Fortunately, the drive to Spencer's place was not extremely long, and he didn't quite speed to the point where he needed his siren, so he made it there in about five minutes. As he approached the old storefront, a dark sedan blew past him in the opposite lane. Lassiter glanced in the rearview mirror. As much as he hated to admit it, he was more concerned about Spencer than a car on a joyride at the moment, but he still wasn't about to let a speedster escape unpunished.

Unfortunately, the vehicle was moving at such a high rate of speed that it was already too far away for Lassiter to read the plate, let alone turning to give chase. He briefly considered it, but then swallowed that thought and turned into Spencer's driveway.

Hopefully he wouldn't regret this decision.

When he pulled in, everything was still and quiet. Too quiet, he realized. Lassiter couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something… off. Some sixth cop sense inside of him that was already somewhat on alert from the phone call suddenly shifted to high gear. Over the years, he had learned to listen to his gut feelings, so he quickly parked and drew his gun as he exited his vehicle. He shut the door as quietly as he could as something beside him caught his eye: tire tracks.

 _That's weird._

He knew Spencer drove a motorcycle, and these definitely belonged to a four-wheeled vehicle. Plus, they looked fresh, and they were too big to belong to Guster's car. Lassiter was no expert on Spencer's life outside of the SBPD, but he was willing to bet it was an odd occasion that anyone else was at Spencer's place at this time of night. The tire tracks just increased the gut feeling he had that something was definitely not right.

Lassiter quietly moved toward the front door of the dry cleaner's. He looked in the window next to the door and frowned. He couldn't see much, but as far as he could tell there was no movement inside the apartment. One dim light could be seen through the window, but there were no shadows or sounds of anyone moving around inside. While he wouldn't put it past Spencer, he was fairly certain the other man wouldn't have fallen asleep in the short time since they had spoken.

As he turned for the door, something through the window caught his attention. He had almost missed it, chalking up the shoe lying on the floor to Spencer's less than exemplary cleaning habits. Then he looked again, almost as an afterthought, and suddenly realized that there was a leg attached to the shoe. Lassiter's eyes narrowed as he double-checked his observation, and sure enough, there was a body lying on the far side of the coffee table from the window. He couldn't see a face, but those Converses were definitely Spencer's.

That was all Lassiter needed. He whirled on his heel and rushed to the door, trying the knob and thankfully finding it unlocked. A moment later, he was inside and rounding the corner of the table. Sure enough, Spencer was sprawled on the ground, still as could be, eyes closed.

"Spencer!" Even as Lassiter yelled the other man's name, he was taking in the scene quickly. His eyes narrowed as he saw the pill bottle on the floor near Spencer's hand and a piece of paper with scribbled handwriting on the table. "Spencer, this had better not be some sick joke!"

"Lassie!" Spencer sat upright so quickly that Lassiter had to take a step back in surprise. "You got my message!"

Lassiter crossed his arms and scowled at Spencer's grinning face. "Spencer, you had better tell me what is going… Oh for-" he interrupted himself as Spencer held up a hand and began to spit into it. Lassiter watched in something akin to a mix of morbid curiosity and revulsion. "What in the name of Sweet Lady Justice are you doing?"

In explanation, Spencer held out his now-slimy hand with two white pills lying in his palm. "I'm probably the only kid whose dad taught him how _not_ to take medicine."

"I'm confused," Lassiter replied blankly.

"Okay, so, just before you got here, the bad guy left," Spencer started to explain. "I was just making sure he was all the way gone, and then you showed up."

Lassiter frowned. "I did pass a vehicle right before I got to your driveway. They were speeding, and I would have pulled them over if I hadn't needed to get that casefile from you more than I needed to issue a traffic citation at this hour of the night. Are you telling me that was a potential murderer I could have apprehended?" He was not pleased with this turn of events.

"Uh-huh," Spencer replied with a shrug.

"Okay." Lassiter sighed deeply, closing his eyes briefly before looking back at the other man. "Why did he try to kill you?"

"I don't know… Wait, that's a lie. Yes I do."

"Spencer!"

"Hang on, Lassie. I can't concentrate with these things in my hand," Spencer complained. "I think they're dissolving." He turned and hurried for the kitchen, where he grabbed a paper towel from the counter and wiped the contents of his hand onto one. Lassiter made a face but left it alone as the other man continued talking even as he finished wiping off the remaining residue on the seat of his jeans. "Anyway, so I was just minding my own business, planning to order some Chinese and settle in for that marathon of _MacGyver_ that I've been waiting all week for - and am now _missing_ , by the way," he added with a disappointed shake of his head.

"Can we please stay on topic?" Lassiter asked impatiently. "I need to get hunting for this guy."

"Right." Spencer nodded. "So, uh, let's see. I must have forgotten to lock the door behind me when I got home, because I came out of the bathroom to find him waiting on the sofa for me." He sighed sadly. "He said he'd killed Bradley Turner."

"Bradley Turner?" Lassiter blinked. "The other key witness in the Sawyer case?" He frowned as he thought that revelation over. "That must be why he was after you, too. They must be trying to eliminate all the witnesses in that case. Did he say who had sent him?"

Spencer shook his head sadly. "He was my twin."

"What? Who, Turner? Your… no, he was not," Lassiter snorted in disbelief. "Spencer, you and Guster were the only people who thought you two looked alike. Plenty of people are your same height, and brown is not a unique hair color."

Sighing forlornly, Spencer continued. "He was my brother from another mother. And father. Actually, another family altogether, although our psychic connection and dashing good looks could not be denied."

"Spencer."

The psychic still ignored him. "You don't just go murdering people; that's against the law!"

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Way to state the obvious, but if he wasn't a criminal he wouldn't break the law, and we need to catch him, so can we please _stay on topic_?"

"Okay, okay." Spencer put up his hands. "He said he'd dumped the body off of Stearn's Wharf and that he was pretty sure that no one would be able to identify it without DNA records whenever it surfaced. He also said that once news of my death hit the news, his money would hit his account and he'd be long gone. Then all he had left to do was disappear." Spencer shrugged. "After that, he forced me to take those pills, which I didn't actually take, obviously." He grinned, apparently quite pleased with himself.

Nodding, Lassiter thought aloud. "Okay, so we need to get you to the station and get a sketch of this guy and then we can-"

"No, we can't, Lassie."

Lassiter stopped short and glared at the other man. "Can't what?"

"Can't sketch the guy. He had a mask."

Why the man hadn't thought to mention this before, Lassiter had no idea. "Why would he have a mask if he already planned to kill you?" he asked.

"I don't know!" Spencer exclaimed. He looked offended at the question. "It's not like I said, 'Hey, big scary dude who wants to kill me, why do you have a mask on? Are you embarrassed of your face or something?'"

Lassiter just raised an eyebrow.

Spencer smirked. "Okay, that's exactly what I did, but he didn't answer me."

"Fine." Lassiter sighed. "Let's get you back to the station and figure out where to go from there."

"Wait, Lassie!" Spencer exclaimed. "I have an idea!"

Turning from where he'd started for the door, Lassiter cleared his throat. "Does this qualify as a good idea - by _my_ definition, not yours?" he added when Spencer started to reply.

"Umm…" Spencer appeared to think it over. "Does faking my own death count as a good idea in your definition?"

That was definitely not what Lassiter had wanted to hear coming from the other man's mouth. "Spencer…" he growled.

"No, wait, hear me out, Lassie."

"I'm probably going to regret this, but fine. Convince me," Lassiter said, crossing his arms and waiting.

"Not forever, of course, just until we can catch the big bad guy behind the hits. Obviously this was just the hired hitman." Spencer grinned. "If word _doesn't_ get out that I died, it's a pretty good bet that the baddie will send more people after me. Since we don't know who either the boss guy or the hitman are, and there's no way to trace either since we have no IDs, we're kind of limited on our options."

The thing that worried Lassiter the most was that he was actually tracking with Spencer's logic. "But how are we going to pull this off? It's not like we can fake you actually being dead from those pills. There are way too many people involved between the ambulance crew and the officers. Plus we don't know who our perps are, so how do we keep the secret from them?"

Spencer frowned in thought, then his eyes lit up. "We don't!"

"Excuse me?"

"We don't have me die from the pills! We pretend I was dumped off of the Wharf too!"

Blinking, Lassiter tried to catch up with the other man's thought process. It had suddenly jumped tracks, and he wasn't sure how they connected. "But he tried to poison you."

"Right."

This conversation was a mess. "And so if you pretend you got dumped into the ocean, he'll know something went wrong."

"You don't think this guy's going to admit to his boss when word hits the news that I died the wrong way, do you?" Spencer chuckled. "He's probably already skipped town anyway, and he's sure not going to be all, 'Hey, so I know you paid me, but I just realized that dashingly handsome psychic can't be dead because I didn't throw him off a dock. Please don't kill me for messing up.'"

Lassiter raised an eyebrow.

"It'll at least buy us enough time, and it'll explain away the lack of a body if I leave my bike and a note at the Wharf." Not waiting for a reply from the detective, Spencer bounced on his toes excitedly. "I can totally go hide out at my dad's house. We do that with clients all the time. It's perfect."

Lassiter wasn't so sure. "Are you sure Henry will appreciate us showing up at his house at this hour of the night?" he asked and rubbed a hand over his face. The very fact that he was even considering that Spencer's plan might have merits was concerning.

"Relax, Lassie," Spencer grinned. "My dad might seem all grumpy and perpetually constipated on the exterior, but - No, wait, I'm pretty sure he's grumpy and perpetually constipated on the interior too, but somewhere deep down inside, he does love me, or at least cares about me staying alive. I'm pretty sure he'll be fine with hiding me until you can catch the bad guy."

Frowning, Lassiter turned the thought over in his mind. There were worse ideas… "Fine, but if Henry refuses, we are going with my original plan of taking you to the station for the next few days. We are not forcing him to comply with your foolhardy plan if he doesn't want to."

"Fair enough," Spencer nodded. He clapped his hands together. "Okay, so that's what we'll do: we'll leave my bike at the Wharf with a note, you'll drop me off at my dad's house, and then you won't tell anybody what happened until you manage to find the bad guy." He started for the doorway to his bedroom. "Just let me grab my toothbrush!"

"Spencer!" Lassiter barked, stopping the younger man in his tracks. "What do you mean, I 'won't tell anybody what happened'? What kind of stupid plan is that?"

Spencer blinked "But Lassie, we can't let anyone in on what we're doing. By definition a secret can't be shared, and who knows who this guy is or how connected he might be! Didn't you just say we couldn't get too many people involved? Besides, you _are_ always lecturing me about how we can't risk information getting into the wrong hands when I ask you for leads on cases."

"That's different," Lassiter growled.

Shrugging, Spencer looked Lassiter in the eye. "I mean, you have to tell Woody, but that's got to be it."

"But what about O'Hara?" Lassiter demanded. "You can't expect me to conceal something like this from my partner."

"It's just for a day, maybe two max," Spencer returned. When Lassiter started to protest again, the psychic looked at him seriously - perhaps more so than Lassiter had ever seen him before. "My life, my call. Jules will understand."

Lassiter sighed. He had to admit that Spencer had a point. They had no idea who had sent the goon after him, and they couldn't risk revealing his safety and current location if it had been an inside job. He massaged the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. "Okay," he said, opening his eyes. "But," he added quickly, cutting off the excitement he could see building in the other man's face, "if this starts to go south, I'm telling the chief immediately. We are now treading in a very shady legal area." He shook his head. "The things you get me to do."

"Aw, Lassie; we all know that nobody can make you do anything you don't want to." Spencer grinned at him.

"Just hurry it up, Spencer; we don't have all night."

* * *

 _Present day_

"And that's what happened," Lassiter concluded. They were both standing outside of Sawyer's house, the perp himself cuffed in the backseat of the vehicle while the detectives stood outside in the night air talking. "Somewhere in the chaos, the man must have dropped his phone, but neither Spencer nor I noticed." He scowled. "And you'd better not tell anyone I just said that either."

O'Hara was staring at him, her eyes revealing the depth of her emotions as she processed everything he had just told her. "I… I can't decide if I want to slap you or hug you right now."

That was fair enough, he supposed. "I'm sorry, O'Hara. I did want to tell you."

The corner of her mouth quirked up at that. "Shawn was right. We all know you don't do anything you don't want to do. Somewhere, you agreed with his plan." She sighed. "I can't blame you, honestly; I understand where you guys were coming from."

"Okay-"

She raised a hand and cut him off. "That doesn't mean you're off the hook, though. You and Shawn are going to have a long way to go to make this up to me." She shook her head. "I can't even imagine what the chief is going to say."

She had a point. Again. Why was this becoming such a habit with his conversations lately? "Okay," Lassiter repeated, this time slowly and with a nod, "now that that's out of the way."

"I'm telling Shawn I know what happened," O'Hara decided, reaching for her phone. Then she paused. "Wait, he might not answer my call still… Let me use your phone."

"O'Hara-"

"Lassiter, you owe me this. Give me your phone."

He didn't bother trying to protest again. She already knew, and there was no point in hiding that from Spencer. It might do the man some good anyway; at least he might realize how stupid it had been to try to conceal something like this from O'Hara. He handed her his phone and watched as she tapped the screen in sequence to dial Spencer.

A moment later, her face suddenly grew pale. "Shawn? Shawn! What is going on?" She looked up to Lassiter with wide eyes. "We have to get to Henry's house. Now! I'll call for backup!"

* * *

Shawn supposed it was due to the years of dropping by his dad's house with random clients and suspects, but Henry had actually agreed with Shawn's plan to hide out at the house. Of course, that agreement had been prefaced by the condition that they had forty-eight hours to solve the mystery before Henry would personally drive Shawn to the SBPD.

 _"They have to wait that long before launching a missing-persons investigation, so you have that long to figure this out,"_ Henry had said.

Shawn supposed he couldn't argue with that. Plus his dad still had that box of popcorn in the pantry from the last time Shawn had shown up, and there was a television marathon calling his name.

It was after approximately four and a half _MacGyver_ episodes the next afternoon when Henry came rushing into the living room.

"Shh!" he put a finger up to his lips. "Shawn, you weren't expecting company, were you?" he asked in a low voice.

"What?"

 _"Shh!"_ Henry gave him a firm glare. "I'm serious, Shawn."

It was then that Shawn noticed the pistol gripped in his dad's hand. "Um, can you explain why you're toting a sidearm around the house?"

"But you're not expecting anyone, are you?"

Shawn reached over for the remote and muted the television. Glancing back to his dad, he realized just how dim the room had become since he'd started watching his show. It had been mid-afternoon when the marathon had started, and the sunlight had been streaming through the side windows. Now, night had fallen, and with it, darkness. The one lamp in the corner was the only source of light other than the flickering blue light of the television screen. By Shawn's count, it was probably about… 7:30, give or take a few minutes. Sure enough, a glance at the clock on the bookshelf told him he was only off by eight minutes.

When Shawn raised the remote again, Henry shook his head. "No, leave it on. If you turn it off, they'll know something's up."

" _They_ might just think I went eat dinner," Shawn shot back, mindful to keep his voice at a whisper as well. He might jest with his dad about being paranoid sometimes, but if Henry was worried, then that was a good enough reason for Shawn to stay quiet. At least until the two of them got to the bottom of whoever was outside.

"Just leave it on, Shawn," Henry reiterated. His attention was already back to outside the window.

Shawn clambered off the couch and made his way over to where Henry was crouched under the sill. He made sure to keep his back hunched to stay out of the line of sight of whoever it was his dad had spotted. "What now?" he whispered.

Eyes narrowing, Henry tilted his head toward the hallway at the other end of the room. "You remember where I keep the shotgun?"

"Like I could forget," Shawn replied. "Teaching your 14-year-old son how to shoot a home defense shotgun is probably not under the category of the best parenting practices, by the way."

Henry rolled his eyes. "Shawn, you were plenty old enough to learn how to use it, and we were leaving you home alone more often; I wanted to be sure you were ready in case you needed to use it." He raised an eyebrow as if challenging Shawn to come up with a retort to his logic.

"Okay, fine, so get the shotgun. And then what do you expect me to do with it?"

Before Henry could respond, the sound of breaking glass echoed from somewhere in the back of the house. The two Spencers looked at each other, then Shawn jumped to his feet with Henry right behind him.

"Shawn, go! Quietly!" Henry hissed as his son started to run across the room.

Making a face, Shawn pulled up short with a dramatic wave of his arms, then he flashed a grin at his dad and did as he had been told. Unfortunately he hadn't quite reached the door before a shadowy figure stepped through.

"Ah. Shawn Spencer, I presume," the man greeted with a wide grin. "I've been looking for you."

"Stop right there!" Henry barked, aiming his pistol at the man's chest. "Don't take another step."

Shawn was only about ten paces from the intruder, a fact which he noted with great concern at about the same time he noted the large handgun in the man's meaty fist. He started to back away, only for the man to swing the weapon up right at Shawn's face. It was much too close for comfort, Shawn decided, even as he froze in mid-step.

"Don't. Move." The dark-haired man glared at Shawn, his extra three inches on the pseudo-psychic seeming very imposing when combined with his posture and the gun he was aiming Shawn's way. He moved slowly so that the younger man stood between him and Henry. "I didn't plan to hurt you, old man, but you are unfortunately going to have to go too. Maybe I can make this look like a murder-suicide if I play it right," he commented with a sadistic grin.

"Shawn, stay still," Henry breathed. Shawn knew his dad was trying to get a shot off, but he also knew that there was no way Henry could do so with everyone in their current positions.

And then, suddenly, Lassiter's voice broke into the standoff. _"Spencer!"_

Everyone jumped, and Shawn took that as his cue to lunge forward and grab the intruder's arm, forcing the gun up toward the ceiling.

"Shawn!" Henry yelled.

 _"Spencer!"_ Lassiter bellowed again.

"Dad, that's Lassie! My ringtone! Answer the phone!" Shawn yelled back.

The gunman grunted and pulled against Shawn with all of his might, and Shawn found himself barely able to hold onto the man's hand.

 _"Spencer!"_

"Dad! Get the phone!" he yelled, just as the man managed to land a punch on his jaw. Shawn yelped in pain but still hung on. He kicked the man's ankles as hard as he could while still trying to keep the gun pointed away from himself - and from Henry. There was a tumble of arms and legs then as the man lost his balance trying to wrest his weapon away from him. Both men went down to the carpet. Somewhere in the chaos, the gun went flying, but Shawn had no time to celebrate the accomplishment before he found himself on his back with the murderous intruder on top of him.

The man definitely had an extra fifty pounds on him, and Shawn grimaced as his foe's knee dug into his side. Of course, that paled in comparison to the two large fists that were now wrapped around his throat.

Shawn lashed upward but barely managed to catch the edge of the man's jaw. Air was suddenly in very short supply, and Shawn gasped against the pressure. He tried to focus, tried to bring a knee up to get this brute off of him, but his vision was starting to cloud over and the edges of the room were going gray.

A moment later, there was a yell from somewhere nearby and the hands around his neck suddenly fell away, leaving him gasping desperately. He still couldn't quite see clearly, but he could hear thudding and yelling, and, even as everything faded away, he knew what had happened.

Hopefully his dad could pull this one off, because Shawn was going to be no more help.

* * *

"Shawn?" The voice drifted into his consciousness. "Shawn?"

He blinked, his eyes trying to focus on the fuzzy images around him. Was that… "Jules?" His voice came out raspier than he had expected. He grimaced and lifted a hand to rub at his aching throat, then frowned as his hand came into contact with something frigid.

"It's ice, Shawn, leave it alone," Jules told him. "You've got some nasty bruises there."

Shawn didn't quite feel like talking, so he just nodded his head and looked past Jules to the rest of the room. He was still on the floor at his dad's house, although the room was much more brightly lit than he remembered it just moments before. There were red and blue flickering lights dancing on the far wall coming, Shawn guessed, through the window from the driveway.

His dad's back was turned, talking to Buzz, and when Shawn looked to the door, he saw two EMTs entering. Lassie was right behind them.

The head detective noticed immediately that Shawn's eyes were open. "Spencer!"

His exclamation drew everyone's gazes to Shawn, who lifted a hand in a half-wave at all of the sudden attention. "Hey, guys," he croaked.

"Shawn!" Gus's voice rang out next as the man rushed inside through the open door. "Shawn, you're alive!" He pushed past the medical crew and ran to where Shawn and Jules were on the floor.

"Y'know, ev'ry'n seems t'be shoutin' at me," Shawn complained, turning his attention back to Jules. "M'head hurts."

She didn't look as sympathetic as he'd hoped. "Shawn, we were all really worried about you," she told him.

"No kidding!" Gus added indignantly. "What made you think faking your death was a good idea? And you didn't tell me? Your _best friend_?"

Before Shawn could reply, the lead EMT cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, but we need to check him out. Can you two give us some space?"

Reluctantly, Jules got to her feet. Gus looked a little less sure, but she put a hand on his shoulder. "There'll be time, Gus; don't worry."

Shawn supposed he should be grateful for the reprieve, but he couldn't quite bring himself to be happy with all of the poking and prodding and lights in his eyes that came with it. However, as the medics loaded him on the stretcher and rolled him toward the waiting ambulance outside, Shawn looked past them to where the small group of his worried friends and family were gathered. They were watching him with various expressions of concern, and Shawn offered a small smile and wave before he was carted out the door and down the sidewalk. He smiled to himself; years of running around the country on his own had its merits, but there was something to be said for coming home to where people actually cared about you.

He blinked up at the dark sky. There would be time enough for apologies and whatever legal repercussions would come. For now, he was content to know that everyone he cared about was okay and that the bad guys were behind bars.

Of course, he was going to miss the rest of his _MacGyver_ marathon. That was a bummer. He'd just have to convince Gus to bring a laptop with Netflix to the hospital later.

* * *

 _Fin._


End file.
